


you won't get hurt if you stay chaste

by heotbac



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst, But there will be a sequel, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Everybody loves clapping Bucky on the shoulder for some reason, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Is Alive, Everyone Needs A Hug, Everyone is smart but dangerous, Gen, Good lord what have I done, Guardians of the Galaxy (2014) - Freeform, Loki loves chaos, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Mutual Pining, Natasha is Natasha basically, Natasha sings Russian lullabies, No one is underage because AU, No one understands Bucky, No one understands Bucky or Natasha but they understand each other, No one understands Natasha, Panic Attacks, Pining, Red Room, Reform School, Sad Ending, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Self-Denial, Slow Build, So Many Cameos, Someone please tell Steve Rogers to mind his language for saying "cumslut", Steve claps left boobs, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Avengers - Freeform, ant-man - Freeform, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heotbac/pseuds/heotbac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S.H.I.E.L.D. can't make Bucky the model student they've always wanted every one of their students to be until Steve comes along--and God knows Bucky would give his life to call Steve "sir", even if it's a one-way ticket to Hel (Thor insists it be call that way, and no one questions the hunk).</p><p>Or, the one where Bucky Barnes leads the reform school's black market, Natasha Romanoff is the only one who knows how to braid his hair, Tony Stark is a little obsessed with The Great Gatsby, and Steve Rogers teaches his English class anything but actual English. Bucky also, kind of, maybe, fell in love with Steve, but it's just, a side thing, you know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	you won't get hurt if you stay chaste

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Gotye's "Heart's A Mess".
> 
> Natasha's outfit for the post-exam celebration is inspired by one of Michael Costello's Black Widow gowns (http://api.ning.com/files/c2nk1pk6akTaj6EV53ir06En4Y6lMDn9oAweGlUYsLu*RjSyjCKpSmAGIgWuX9nJpBQYfqK-vLySPH6lDBzrafmVeld25uLm/MichaelCostello.jpg), and this (https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/79/d5/9b/79d59be178a0d8f05ec1068106f6453d.jpg) just melts my heart. 
> 
> I'm new here, no beta, I'm so sorry, please tell me what you think.

"Banner, Robert Bruce?"

"Here."

"Barnes, James Buchanan?"

"Right."

The teacher levels him a brief glare, before her eyes flick back to the clipboard. "I'm not sure if I'm glad I haven't left you out," the class snickers at her pun. "but I'll have you know that I'm rarely incorrect, Mr. Barnes." 

"Miss, Buck—"

"Oh, I'm very comfortable with formalities. I would ask you to reconsider convincing me otherwise." she flips a page on her clipboard, and he's sure it's just for dramatic effect. "And it's Miss Hill to you." Otherwise the most efficient, bone-chillingly strict teacher of the school, Principal Fury's secret arsenal and personal secretary. 

Bucky's mouth shuts audibly. He seethes, jaw hardening, and pulls a less subtle laughing riot out of the class.  

"Barton, Clint?" 

"Here."

The roll call continues, and he feels a sympathetic clap on his shoulder. 

_Huh, maybe this year won't be too bad after_ —

He gets caught setting a detention slip on fire in the janitor's closer halfway through first break. 

—and that's how he starts the first day of his third year at St. Hackett's Institute for Elite Deviants.

 

***

 

Somehow, Banner ends up taking the seat directly across from him during lunch, and Barton on his right. He briefly wonders why they'd dare to infiltrate the “darkest” (literally) table of the entire cafeteria (it's the very corner, so, shady—and dramatic effects are not only Miss Hill's forte), but he'd rather entertain the idea of why they're choosing to sit next to him—the very bottom of the food chain, the very top of the wanted list, the ringleader of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s yet-to-be-uncovered black market (sounds badass, but it's really a network circulating stolen homework, passed-on notes, party dates, weed and condoms—they live in heavily guarded dormitories that almost never let their students out into the real world, and their rooms get regularly checked) for students. 

"So, I heard Quill almost took out Douglas during second break after the latter made fun of the former’s obsession with Blue Swede." Barton starts a conversation as if he did every day with the two other members of the table.  

"Yeah," Banner replies, though more skeptic than Barton, "he told me in music class two years ago that he loved that band. Mom passed it on to him on cassette."

Barton sighs. "Well, he's always been one hell of a brawny dancer—only ever chooses 80’s songs.” He dips his fries into Bucky's ketchup. 

He interjects then. "You guys aren't here for condoms?" he equips the question with his signature "kindly fuck off" smile.

Banner's eyes widen just as Barton claps him on the shoulder. So it _was_ him who did it this morning. "Nope. We're sent here from the director. Couldn't keep both eyes on you when he's got one under his ridiculous eye patch. I swear, that shit's just to make him—"

"You're my new babysitters?" he takes a vicious bite out of his turkey sandwich. 

"You could put it that way." Banner mutters, earning himself a sharp glare from Barton. "You see, Bucky—" he plays with the fork on his tray. “—Clint here, he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. after he barely escaped the circus when he was 16." 

"Meh, I ditched it—"

"He was ‘brainwashed’ by his the twisted morals of his manipulative bastard of a father for a while and it took its toll on him but he's here. And he's alive. He's the best man the institute's seen him since he first came in, in his ridiculous purple pants and red clown wig."

Barton snorts. Bucky doesn't know how he has the audacity to. 

"Me, here—I—" Banner starts, and s uddenly, Barton's hand is on his, gently cradling the snapped handle of the broken plastic fork. 

“—I have anger issues. Anger," he continues in a soft mutter. "management. Issues," he puts down the snapped fork and runs a hand through his hair. "that trapped me until I was fifteen. But," he pauses briefly to pick at his cuticle, "I can talk about it now. I can talk about my 'daddy issues', as Laufeyson put it before I broke his nose a year ago during physics. I can keep the monster—"

"It's what he calls his bipolar disorder," Barton whispers to him.

“—controlled. And yes, without medicine." he stops talking then, stealing a cherry tomato from Bucky's tray.

Bucky sits back then, sinking into his chair. "Trying to move me with a speech? Heard it all before."

"We know," Barton retorts, "broke into the student records cell to read up on our ‘assignment’ after Fury appointed us."

Bucky couldn't hold back his brief moment of hesitation. Banner catches it.

"If you're wondering why the principal chose the two of us, it's the same reason you're gonna need us to get out of here. As quick as you can."

Barton flicks a piece of corn at Banner's forehead. "We're the best two-faced goody-two-shoes you're gonna find." 

Bucky crosses his arms. After a few moments of silence, he nods.

"Good," Banner smiles at him, "the coming years are gonna be a breeze," (What Bucky won't know is that they're gonna be completely wrong in 365 days' time.) they shake hands, "and stop calling us by our surnames in your head. Unlike Miss Hill, we'd like to drop formalities."

"And we still want condoms," Clint adds, turning Bruce an impressive shade of red.

 

***

 

When Bucky almost gets caught smoking in the toilet, it's Clint and Bruce that saves his ass. 

He gives them their condoms and a free bottle of lube afterwards. 

 

***

 

Halfway through the year, Bucky nearly breaks Tony's spine during Information Technology class when he asks Bucky about the "retired" Professor Zola. He's being held back by Bruce in the thankfully empty computer lab.

"Woah, Terminator, take it easy," Tony says as he gets back on his feet, "I just wanted to know what material he used for your prosthetic." 

The joints in his metal arm clicks in response. "Russian." he grits out. 

"Oh. Soviet?" Tony gestures the red star on the side and levels an understanding gaze at him. (He's read the guy's profile from the supposedly impenetrable Archives chamber—the USSR failed to kill his pregnant mother back in the 70's, but some underground rat succeeded when Tony was only seven. They came back for him at the age of seventeen, but he saved himself with one of his robotics creations by building gloves that emit lasers from the palm. The records also showed that he built an entire suit of protection with stolen and replicated Soviet metal, and stored it in the basement of the institute—that was all he got before he was hunted down by Mr. Coulson, the head of the school's security department, a familiar acquaintance for an institutionalised delinquent like Bucky.) 

He squints at him, before relaxing. Bruce doesn't let him go. "Yes."

They shake hands. "Tony Stark, genius playboy millionaire who's obsessed with robotics," Tony says. "heard a lot about you, an honour that we've finally met. Banner—" Bruce loosens his grip on Bucky's arms, “—would you be so kind to capture this moment on camera?" 

Bruce sighs. "You forgot to add 'huge pain in the ass' in your title, Tony."

"Don't need to feel belittled now, Bruce. Jarvis?"

A tall, lanky boy holding a video camera seems to materialise out of thin air. "Yes, sir?" 

“Did you get all that?"  

"Positive. Would you now fancy the martini you requested before Mr. Barnes assaulted you?"

Bucky glares at the boy, who pays him no mind. 

"Very much so. Furiosa?" he grunts in reply, "You're always welcome to my dorm for quality vodka." he pats him on the back as he passes by him to the lab's exit, Jarvis following behind with his bag and what looks like an actual martini glass holding an actual martini.

The rest of the year rolls out quite interestingly. 

 

***

 

Unfortunately, Banner and Barton aren't true to their word. He finds out that they both got discharged at the end of his third year for honourable behaviour. When he walks into homeroom in his fourth year, he's immediately cornered by Ronan, who "pursued vengeance" (that guy's fucking obsessed with overly grandiose terms, Bucky swears) after he got caught smoking Bucky's weed.

And God forbid that guy from understanding that once Bucky's weed been sold, it's not his anymore, and neither are the problems and hazards that come with it. 

He's about to crush that guy's balls with his gloved left hand when a redhead emerges from behind him and whispers something in his ear, making him immediately cower and back away. Ronan was only able to take a few steps before he was dragged to the left by Peter and Arthur. 

_Caw, caw, motherfucker, Karma's a bitch_ , he thinks, before said redhead starts to stare into his eyes _very intensely_. In a very predatory manner, too.   

She suddenly breaks into a smile. "You must be James. Natasha Romanoff."

"To what do I owe the honour of meeting you?" he tries. 

"I'm Barton's and Banner's successor." Bucky stiffens, and it definitely doesn't escape Natasha's notice. "Fury assigned Stark and I this year." She's wearing an arrow necklace.

He relaxes, and proceeds to take a seat in the front row. 

"You gonna tell me what you said to him just now?" he looks up at her.

Natasha smirks. << Я сказал ему, что я бы придерживаться палец в его задницу >> .

He lets her take the seat on his right. 

 

***

 

By third period, they've both shared their back stories (without lying, because they both know they'd already read each other's profiles somehow) without a single tear being shed.

As soon as third period ends, their new teacher enters the classroom right on time.

He only notices that the guy’s new meat, before he ducks his head to check the class schedule. It's English right— 

"Ladies and gentlemen, boy and girls,"

—now. 

Bucky lifts his head. The first thing he spots is his teacher's dog tags, barely visible with its shape protruding a little from his dress shirt. 

"Stand up, please." There's a loud scrape of chairs. He follows when Natasha stands as well. 

The teacher, a beautiful blond man who exerts brilliant authority in the kindest manner, clasps his hands together. "My name is Mr. Rogers, and I'll be your English teacher for the year." Bucky could make out his distinctly blue eyes as it flits across the classroom. He catches them for only a moment, before his gaze sweeps towards the left side of the classroom, where Tony and his girlfriend, Pepper, was seated. "Now, let's take a walk. Everyone, follow me out of the classroom."

No one questions the order, but neither do they hide their confusion. They file out, and Rogers brings them to the central plaza of the school, under the unforgiving roast of the sun, where the school's crest looms over them. 

Rogers claps, easily gaining the class's attention. Next to Bucky, Natasha has her arms crossed. "I'd like everyone here to salute. Good. Hold your position and repeat after me: 'I will not chew gum in class.'" 

Bucky could feel everybody's brows furrow in confusion. 

"I'd do it if I were you," Rogers says, a charming smile accompanying the command. The class does it, and it takes a few times to coordinate them to say it unanimously. Bucky's actually pretty surprised.

"Great job, everyone. Let's head back to the classroom." As Rogers lead them up, most of the girls start to giggle and blush—to Tony’s great disappointment—as do some of the guys. The rest praise the newcomer, claiming that it was going to be a promising year ahead of them. 

Bucky couldn't help silently agreeing. He shoots Natasha a quick smile, and she returns it. 

 

***

 

The first English assignment he got was a letter to an editor. Rogers described it precisely as "an obligatory annual writing assignment from the English department to gauge your skill level" and to "trust me, I wouldn't have done it if I were the head of the department, and I never give out homework". The class genuinely laughs at his frankness. 

In his (single, because no teacher in the right mind would let him conspire with or corrupt someone else that is presumably innocent) dorm room, he seriously considers what to write for the assignment for the first time in years. He's usually content with scribbling down what the teacher wants—without cheating, he only sells to cheaters even if he isn't one, excuse him for the hypocritical statement—but there's something about Rogers that endears him, that makes him want to exude some form of honesty. 

So he does write something completely generic in most parts of the letter, but he’s always had a way with words that most teachers fail to notice, or he doesn’t show it to most of them. He adds a little hint at the bottom of the letter—which happened to conveniently be related to the concept of mental reform for juvenile delinquents—saying, “I’m sure we wouldn’t want carbon copies of Alex DeLarge on the loose.” just to test the waters. 

He submits the assignment to Rogers through email, because _of course_ he had to be the interactive teacher who knows how to grapple at student connections by almost being one of them. 

It's working, too.

 

***

 

After sixth period on Monday, Rogers returns their assignment back to them. Some of the students flail in excitement, others blushing, while Natasha smoothes out the sheet triumphantly, revealing a full mark. When he gets his paper back though, Rogers shoots him a small, almost tentative smile, and he looks down on the sheet to see “see me after school” at the bottom.

He sighs. Well, looks like his radar had failed him—Rogers might as well be another one of those drones that’s heard too much about Bucky, to a point where he can’t do anything to redeem his “first impression”.

So when he trudges into the staffroom’s hallway, he fully expects to see Mr. Rumlow (without a doubt the roughest P.E. teacher in the entire state) next to Rogers, ready to escort him to a torture chamber in the basement (he really hopes there is one, it’d add such a great touch to the Hogwarts-esque atmosphere S.H.I.E.L.D. has going on, which ain’t fooling anyone) for possessing an R-rated movie. Instead, he’s greeted by his English teacher sitting on one of the benches outside the staffroom, patting down on the spot next to him and staring out of the balcony into the football field that’s plagued with sweaty rugby players who think they’re bigger than the world.

He takes his seat, lightly crumpled assignment in hand.

“I report to you, sir.” Bucky squeezes his knees, frowning a little.

“Bucky, am I right?” he nods in reply, “You’ve got one hell of a grip at writing, and I’m very impressed,” Rogers says, and, honestly, he’s taken back. Most teachers treat him as a prisoner, but he’s now talking to the only guy who, apparently, treats him as an equal.

“I—I thought you’d call me here to, uh, ask me questions about my profile, or background, or something,” his teachers looks slightly confused then, “Mr. Rogers.” 

“Please, call me Steve. I’m still not used to the whole ‘mister’ thing that seems to be a default here.” Roge—Steve, assures him, and it makes him feel _comfortable_ , all of a sudden. 

“Well, thank you, Steve. I—you wanted to talk about my writing?”

“Yeah. I loved the fluency of the entire letter. It’s not overwhelming, and it’s a good balance between your ‘gentle sarcasm’. It’s humorous, and it’s well-planned.” Steve’s eyes crinkle and it made Bucky’s heart shrivel a little. He’s not used to the intrinsic kindness.

They end up talking into dinner time, and they try to slow time down as much as they can while strolling to the cafeteria together. Bucky has to run to Tony and Natasha’s table to get there in time at 6:00 for roll call. When he does, Steve calls after him, “Don’t let me catch you giving your rendition of ‘Singing in the Rain’ any time soon, Buck!”

“Dunno, sir, might prank the orchestra into playing Lux Aeterna for the Christmas concert!” he shouts back, nearly crashing into Mr. Wilson, possibly the most-loved American literature teachers of the institute. Mr. Wilson gives him a fond smile when he mutters a “sorry”, and he revels in the sound of Steve’s laughter the whole trip to his table.

When he takes a seat next to Natasha, breathless, and steals a sip of Scott’s apple juice (he thinks he feels an ant bite him afterwards for that), Tony leads the group to inspect him, elbows on the table and chin resting on a nest of his own fingers.

“Care to explain to the class why you sprinted here fast enough to beat one of the Maximoff twins?” he jests, and Bucky just kind of glowers at him. He glances at the entrance of the cafeteria to find Steve and Mr. Wilson talking animatedly, laughing, with the former clapping the latter’s—left man boob? Pec? 

He does catch the silhouette of a dog tag under Wilson’s sweater, though.

“I, Thor Odinson, ruler of Asgard,” it’s really just the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s stable, but no one’s gonna challenge Thor for being a little self-involved because he’s built like a horse (ha, punny), “believe that James was simply famished and eager to devour a hearty meal.” he takes a gigantic bite out of his hot dog, “I highly recommend you try the dog of heat—it’s truly delicious!” the rest of the table snickers, while Jane proceeds to rub her temples.

Bucky thinks it's the first time he lets himself smile in front of his friends.

 

***

 

Three months later, Mr. Rumlow makes Bucky run fifty laps on the track for breaking Justin’s nose when he _first_ , objectifies Natasha, _then_ , proceeds to prod at her experience and her mental instability as the result of growing up in the “Red Room”, a twisted Russian orphanage that Bucky was also sent to when he tried to run away from home, which trained children to become assassins dozen by dozen, eventually killing the eleven that failed the “final exam”.

He expects Natasha to tell him off, to tell him that she was strong enough to sort it out herself. But Natasha doesn’t, and it only shows how much she really understands him. She gives him a short nod, and he kisses her on the cheek, only a little damp. Tony claps his shoulder as Mr. Rumlow approaches him.  

It’s really all the approval he needs. 

He’s on the thirty-seventh lap, when someone cruises by him.

“On your left.” 

He’d recognise that blonde hair anywhere. It glows in the afternoon sun, and Bucky tries not to stare at Steve’s ass in those ridiculous sweatpants of his. He deliberately runs quicker.

Steve passes him twelve times. When he finishes, both of his hands fly to pull at the long strands of his hair, and he mesmerises the noonday sky. 

“Fancy seeing you here, Buck,” is all Steve says when he catches up, walking next to him.

“At least I now know who I’m fighting for,” Bucky replies, sighing, “at least I have more of a purpose now than four years ago." 

Steve smiles at him. “I’m glad you do. It took me three years to find one after I got back. One more to shake off the 'bad habits' I picked up back there.” he almost seems bashful when he ducks his head, hands on his hips. “No one to bark at me loud enough to sting my eardrums, that’s for sure,” Steve lets go, and walks leisurely beside him. Bucky lowers his arms, shoving them into his pockets.

There’s a moment of comfortable silence. They walk with their heads down, memorising the scuffles on their shoes, as if both of them were teenagers, roiling and bathing in the amateur glow of their own angst. 

“Are you and Mr. Wilson,” Bucky starts, and Steve raises his head to meet his gaze, “you two from the same tour?”

“Oh, no,” Steve picks up, “he used to work at the Department of Veteran Affairs. Met him during a gathering when my friend Sharon dragged me there. Hit it off immediately,” he smiles in the direction of the sun, hands swinging back and forth, clapping when they met, “really helped me out of the situation I was in back then.”

Bucky snorts, but not out of condescension. “Could really use some more people like that nowadays,” he mutters.

“I’m sure Natasha’s always there to help you out,” Steve suggests.

“She is. Pretty sure she’ll alwa—I’d do the same thing for her,” Bucky admits, “punched Justin in the face because he doesn’t understand half of the bullsh—trauma, we’ve—shared, together,” he finishes.

“Well,” Steve responds, “that explains why you’re here.”

“I’m sure you’ve read my records, sir. There are many, many reasons to why Rumlow could’ve made me run laps.”

“In fact, Bucky, I haven’t; I’d rather not mar my impression of my students with their past.” 

Bucky raises his head at that.

“I know I’m not entitled to give my opinion to my students,” Steve continues, “I’d rather they learn with a clear mind, and I’d rather they learn whatever and however they want.” he stops then, outside the entrance to the garden. He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “I’m a firm believer that you should do more of what makes you happy.” 

He leaves then, after flashing Bucky another one of his signature smiles. 

Bucky stares at the wilting noonday sun for a good few minutes before he returns to his dorm to get ready for dinner.

 

***

 

If he jerks off in the shower before dinner to Steve’s— _everything_ , it’s completely, totally, definitely understandable. 

He comes so hard he tastes blood on his lips.

 

***

 

It’s been five months since the first day of school, and it’s then that Bucky notices a contend—

_No_. Peggy Carter is not a contender. Bucky doesn’t—he doesn’t like Steve _that way_. He admires Steve, that’s all, and, and Peggy’s just doing the same, Bucky’s overthinking it; fucking _Zola_ —

He ends up excusing himself to the toilet. Natasha holds his hair back when he vomits.

 

***

 

Maddeningly, Steve refuses to disclose anything about his romantic endeavours. It drives the class mad, and Bucky’s amused by how much they want to know. He’s a little curious, but he doesn’t go to the extent of pushing Steve into answering.

But he isn’t ready for when Steve finally slips out that he’s single. Bucky chokes on the straw of his tumbler, while the rest of the class freaks out. Steve scans the classroom while he scratches the back of his head—those inglorious biceps of his, good lord—and catches Bucky’s flattering choking moment. Bucky swears that he could see Steve blushing, just lightly, a brush of pink on his cheeks.

He doesn’t forget about it the entire day. He’s about to sleep, and it keeps coming up—the thought of Steve, the thought of going down on him, getting down on his knees like the obedient little school boy S.H.I.E.L.D. chases after, and choking intentionally to tighten the grip his mouth has on Steve’s cock, replicating that blush but being able to see it spread across Steve’s entire body, over his smooth pecs, his abs, _everywhere_ —

He’s biting his right hand to keep from moaning, or worse, shouting Steve’s name like a goddamn prayer. His metal arm spasms as he gets himself off, and he imagines his _teacher_ beside him, crooning into his ear, “don’t, not yet”, and he’s not one to back down from an order.

“Sir,” he’d reply— _no_ , he’d beg, “please, _sir_ , I need, I _can’t_ , I—”

“Then do it,” Steve’d say, “do it, like that dirty little cumslut you are.”

And Bucky did just that, come spurting onto his metal wrist, as his chest rises and falls against the pillows behind him.

He’s so fucking _fucked_.

 

***

 

Mr. Pierce gets fired in the middle of the year for trying to manipulate a student into having sexual relations with him. It’s not the first time, S.H.I.E.L.D. announces, and Bucky’s so fucking relieved, because that shithole won’t leer at him anymore, because he knows by firsthand fucking experience, and he’s glad he’s locked up _for good_.

Natasha lets him put his head on her lap while he cries, eating ice cream and watching The Descendants on her laptop. Scott gives him a card during lunch by having a bunch of ants crawl onto the bench and leave it on his lap (he doesn’t question it, it’s not the weirdest thing he’s seen—not since he saw Gamora dancing to “Want You Back”), Tony offers him Jarvis for a day, and Thor allows him a free ride on Mjolnir, his favourite horse.

Mr. Wilson picks up Bucky’s literature class, and he’s very well-received. He’s so much more vibrant than Pierce’s arrogant drone, he lets the kids swear for “literary purposes”, and sympathises with their troubles and teaches them what Bucky calls “real literature”, not hammering out some classic shit that they’ve already analysed in third grade. He insists to be called “Sam”, another trait that his students seem to love. Sam teaches them about survivor guilt as a veteran and shares personal life experiences, ands brings the classroom to life. He analyses War Photographer in detail outside of the syllabus, and shares with them Louise Erdrich’s—Sam's and now Bucky's favourite writer—creations.

Bucky’s favourite classes easily switches from Biology and Information Technology to English and American Literature halfway through the year.

 

***

 

Steve intentionally mixes up the class for a project on wars. It’s a catastrophe for two reasons—every “clique” is split up, and the entire topic is just all out _vague_. Nobody knows what to do, literally, and Bucky’s group goes a little like this: Peter wants to cover Star Wars, Happy wants to cover Mayweather vs Pacquiao, Darcy wants to cover the Spanish Civil War, and nobody gives half a shit about Eddie, who won’t stop talking about his new camera lens that got whacked up by Ben Grimm during weightlifting. Bucky ends up doing all the work, because Peter and Happy won’t back down from their suggestions, and Eddie’s being…Eddie. Naturally, Darcy volunteers to do the powerpoint, because Jane’s best friend isn’t a complete nutjob who refuses to put down his _goddamn camera for just one second?!? Honestly, stop taking photos of Jane or I will gauge out your eyeballs, or, better yet, the dried prunes you call your balls_. (Courtesy of Darcy.)

So, amidst captaining the lacrosse team (which has seven people in it, but Coach Phillips insists that they can’t afford loosening up the regimen which is the main source that wards people off from joining the team, even though the matches are months away) and going to therapy every Thursday, Bucky tries to work on the project. He chooses to work on “survivor’s guilt”, but each slide only get less than ten words (Steve’s requirements) and the presentation must be five minutes long (also Steve’s requirements) and he doesn’t want to cram his entire brain in three hundred seconds worth of people not listening to him talk. He can’t even go his own damn direction, because Steve will know that he did it all by himself and he can’t stress how much that man stresses on teamwork (“Teammates trust each other. That’s what makes it a team. Not a bunch of people going about doing their own thing.”) for every group project they have to do. Secondly, Bucky has a—reputation, to upkeep: it designs him to be the resident bad-boy, feared and hence respected, and—

And that’s just about all the excuses he can give himself.  

So he makes it humorous.

He hates himself for making it humorous. It’s not. It really, really isn’t the way he wanted it to go.

Seven hours after he’s conjured the script and he’s presenting it to the class on a Wednesday morning, the look on Steve’s face pretty much translates into the words you see along the gateway to hell. And, Darcy had the fucking decency to put up a Tumblr post on the first slide, one that shows the Joker—Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight, may the love of Christ please zap him to death, no, wait, that’s Zeus—stripped of makeup, in a line up of soldiers, where a Tumblr user mistook him for an actual soldier, and, and it’s bad. It’s really, really bad, even though the class laughs. 

They don’t when Steve calls them out of the classroom for a “short talk”.

Bucky’s fucking distraught.

It’s all he tells Dr. Erskine on Thursday night in the counselling room.

 

***

 

Two months away from finals, Peggy’s seen everywhere with Steve during school hours, and Peggy almost regularly bakes for that guy, and Peggy’s a great girl and she’s not just a teacher’s pet and there’s a ship name for the two of them and Steve just looks so happy but when he sees Bucky it’s just fucking _terrible_ as if Steve just hates him so fucking much and he’s losing his goddamn mind over some stupid crush—yes, he’s graduated from angsty refusal to label how he feels about his teacher who has a fantastic ass, by the way—and it’s not fair how it’s driving him insane like two, fucking. Years. Ago—

He’s crying when he tells Natasha all this, but she holds him the entire time. Natasha tells him to get his shit together and pull through the exams, because if they want to get out of here, together, they’ll have to do exceptionally well. By the time they’ve finished their fourth Russian cartoon, Bucky’s downed an entire canister of rum, and Natasha’s done with his French braid. It tickles the back of his neck.

“Should I write him an apology letter?”

“He’s waited a week for it.”

“Fuck.”

“I don’t see it going anywhere." 

“What, you mean my little fascination with the staffroom’s golden boy?" 

“His impression of you.”

“My resume?”

“To redeem what happened two years ago?”

Bucky throws her an unimpressed glance. Natasha laces her fingers together and faces him.

“What’s happened has happened. You’ve come a long way. You’ve done great things that you’ve refused to notice." 

Bucky snorts at that.

“You know damn well I don’t sugarcoat my statements, James.”

Bucky sobers up.

“Write the letter. Not for a teacher’s recommendation, but for a teacher’s recognition of who you truly are. To the only person that you’re willing to show yourself to.” 

She takes a moment to survey his room. 

“Besides, Phillips’s got your resume covered.” 

With that, Natasha (literally) jumps out of the window (because, girls and boys, different dorms) like a spider. 

He sharpens his pencil and gets to work.

 

***

 

_I’m sorry for the things I’ve said on Wednesday. Had I realised how insensitive the content was, had I taken a step back to reconsider how inappropriate it would be to encourage the false opinions of a group of ill-informed, media-dependent teenagers on the perpetually-misunderstood mindset of veterans, I would not have allowed myself to give such an egregious misrepresentation of a union I am not part of._

_Thank you for making me realise the big picture, the cacophony of the entire project. Thank you for bringing my foolishness and my callousness to light; thank you for making me more careful when it comes to these topics. Wednesday will be a lesson I will look back at, and keep learning from, because it’s always more effective to learn from your mistakes._

 

_Regards,_

_Bucky_

 

***

 

Steve gives out an assignment on Tuesday, and he smiles when he hands Bucky’s back.

 

***

 

_You hang on to this, the best way to learn is to know and remember where you went wrong._

 

_Steve_

 

***

 

It’s almost ritualistic to throw an all-out post-exam celebration for the students. It’s the one night where the teachers don't give a shit, where Rumlow gets smashed (it was ’05, there’s video footage), Coulson isn’t around, and Fury and Hill probably locked themselves up to avoid seeing naked teenagers fucking in the central garden’s fountain. They aren’t allowed out, but being allowed in is possibly _even better_.

No, Bucky isn’t the host—Tony is. Bucky just supplies the weed, the booze, the lights, the speakers, the music, the condoms (so many condoms) and a gallon of lube. He hopes Jarvis doesn’t have to make all the martinis himself. 

To be honest, mostly everybody just wants to get shit-faced, and Bucky’s not gonna stop them. But they also want to retain class, so, every year’s showdown becomes something more of a casual night at Gatsby’s, which, everybody is pretty fine with.

He’s waiting outside Natasha’s hotel room in a ratty old “tux” (it’s not dirty or anything, it’s just kind of ancient—a little too small for him, really, and he doesn’t own suit jacket or a tie, so he ends up rolling the sleeves up and unbuttoning the first three buttons, only maintaining the decency to tuck his suit in because he really _doesn’t give a fuck_ , he only sells condoms for fuck's sake) that Tony insists only he could pull off, hair pulled back into a loose “man-bun” Darcy recommends.

Eventually, Natasha waltzes out of her room in a sleeveless skintight black gown that sweeps the floor, endowed in black diamonds and slitted in a fashion that resembles the opposing triangles of a black widow, with her hairstyle reminiscent of the 1920’s. She extends the back of her hand to Bucky. He receives it too willingly and kisses it, smiling as he says, “You look beautiful.” 

The pair make their way down the dormitory halls to the “ballroom” (Tony insists it to be called as such for the night), and it’s no surprise that they turn a few (or every, he doesn’t count) heads. 

“Keep your eyes on the prize, James,” she winks back at him. 

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “You mean my weed, or…”

“Well,” she murmurs, “it’s up to your interpretation.”

He doesn't ask further. 

By the time they’ve reached the excessively embellished doors of said room, they could hear the loud thrum of a remixed version of Bryan Ferry’s “Love is the Drug” pounding like a uniformed march. Entering the ballroom is the exact scene you’d expect from The Great Gatsby itself—the two (student) butlers at the doors welcome them in slow motion, and they’re enveloped into an entirely different world as they walked in—one flooding with gold, too many chandeliers, too many diamonds, caprese finger snacks lined up neatly on silver trays held by more (student) butlers dressed too smartly for their own good, vodka shots and wine glasses (courtesy of Bucky) in every student’s gloved hand. 

It’s a very Tony-themed extravaganza. Speaking of which, they’re immediately led by one of the minion butlers up a main staircase (that one was always there, Tony wouldn’t dare have a marble staircase built—or would he?), into a room overlooking the entire assemblage.

Tony’s dressed up as he’s expected to—maroon suit, black tie, maroon glasses, rings on every finger. Pepper, with her arm hooked around his, shines in a royally embroidered tan coloured dress, her auburn hair pulled back into a bun. They’re the paragon of a power couple, and they welcome Bucky and Natasha with (Jarvis’s signature) martinis.

“Not too shabby, I hope?” Tony smiles, before shouting to a random butler who whisks past them from behind, “Careful with the goddamn finger sandwiches! And, you—those capers better not fall off like the last time!” 

Pepper pats Tony on the chest, more than a little concerned of the perpetual predicament. “I hope you two have a great time. He’s having a—rough, day. He rather enjoys it with his martinis.”

Natasha returns a quick smirk (that she calls a smile). “I’m sure we will. Thank you.” Bucky follows her out, and Natasha disappears into the crowd, off to seduce whatever poor guy or girl she can get her hands on. It’s sacrilegious to bring it up to her about it; it’s only Bucky who knows that she’s probably going to string someone up to interrogate them for information. Whatever she can get her hands on, really. She’s a bundle of secrets that Bucky can never fully understand, and he’d like to keep it that way—he has his.

So he mingles a little. There are many pairs of eyes that follow him—he’s the resident bad boy, really, it’s expected. He charms a few guys and girls, steals a few shrimp cocktails from the butlers waltzing by, and takes a few shots out of boredom. He’s never too interested in parties, anyway. 

Eventually, eighteen shots in and a nine glasses of wine later—he can’t get drunk _anymore_ , he’s pretty sure his bladder soaks up the liquid and his kidneys eat up the alcohol—he’s draped across a velvet mauve-coloured couch surveying the ballroom for all of its exits, when Loki decides to take a seat next to him. 

He’s ready to leave, when Loki pipes up and says, “Your arm is a magnificent invention. A very articulate replacement. It’s a shame you don’t use it for what it’s worth.”

Bucky’s grip tightens. His jaw clicks in tandem with the joints of his metal fist. 

“You see, James—I’ve noticed you for a while now. Your history, your profile; it’s an enchanting fable.” he peers in and whispers in Bucky’s ear, “I’ve read about Doctor Zola. His fascination with you and his increment to you, as an invention, something so untouchably inhuman—”

Before Bucky could raise his arm, Loki shuts him down. “I would recall your probation if I were you. Say farewell to New York, or any way out for that matter, if you even dare to touch me.”  

Bucky’s chest is heaving. His jaw hurts, he sees red, and it’s—it’s two years ago, all over again—

“Natasha can’t save you now, can she? Such a lovely little thing,” Loki snaps his finger, “even prettier when she’s broken.” his hand comes up to pat Bucky’s knee. “Just like you.

“See, James, I want nothing but to quench my endless desire for chaos. You are nothing with your memory. Such an efficient servant when you can’t think, the ideal puppet when you’re finally—clear, in your mind. Zola could’ve used you for so much more—a pity he only used you for _sex_.

“A shame he didn’t get so far. Pierce was such a careless man. All those years in the Red Room—you could’ve done great things, James—but you had to ruin it. A fatal flaw. A _human_ flaw.” Loki shakes his head, then lays a hand on Bucky’s quivering shoulder.

“You had to remember. You had to _fight back_ ,” he rises, looking down on the broken boy. “you’re a messy disgrace, _‘Bucky’_.” he spits out the last word, and submerges himself into the crowd of cajoling sweaty teenagers.

 

***

 

_Fifty. Forty-one, nineteen. Seven. Six. Thirty, eight? Twenty? Twenty-two? Shots. Shot glasses shot glasses shots shots, shots—_

He lost count. He’s finally staggering into the oddly cool zephyrs of the night—too early for anyone from the party to catch him—in a drunken stupor, dazed by the few stars protruding in the black curtain of the sky.

He knows he’ll heal in an hour, but it’s nice to feel _normal_ for a while.  

Bucky sits down at the foot of the fountain. It takes him a few good moments to realise that there’s a pair of shoes beside him, tapping away. He looks up to find Steve spinning a pencil between his fingers, looking back at him with an expression of fondness.

It quickly turns into concern when he takes in Bucky’s incoherence.

“Fancy seeing you here, teach,” Bucky mumbles, drawing his legs up and resting his forearms on his knees.

“Are you drunk?”

Bucky responds with a short bark of laughter, and throws his head back. 

“Sam did tell me there’d be an annual party kind of thing happening within the campus each year,” Steve’s brow furrows. “didn’t know it’d be tonight.”

“Consider it The Purge compressed into eight hours of partying.” Bucky stands up and manoeuvres himself on the fountain edge. “What brings you out here into the tumultuous darkness?”

Steve smiles. “I come here every night for an hour. Sketch whatever comes to mind.” 

“Mind if I steal a quick look?” 

“Um,” Steve’s blushing again, and Bucky thinks about months ago, when Steve told the class— _not here_ , “yeah, I guess, I mean—it’s pretty rough, so, pardon me,” Steve mutters.

“Naw, sir, I don’t have any of what you call ‘artistic sense’,” he says, “more of a comic guy myself.” he sends Steve a grin, and starts flipping through the crisp sheets of the binder.

If there’s anything that could make Bucky fall in love with that guy even more, it’s his art. The curvature of his lines and the smoothness of whatever he draws articulates every feature and brings every one of them to life. There’s a sketch of the fountain, another of the series of shrubbery that surrounds the institute, a dancer in the middle of the garden, two teenagers running around an eagle statue, one of a guy reading a book in a distance—it’s small, innocuous things, like the bricks beneath their feet, the coins that tile the fountain’s floor: it’s a simple catalogue of daily life, and it’s what Bucky _craves_.  

“Uh,” Steve starts, “so, do you like it?”

Bucky looks up to face him. Steve looks apprehensive, and he’s fidgeting a little. He throws a toothy smile to reassure him. “Fucking love it, teach,” he swears without noticing, and the corner of Steve’s eyes crinkle a little.

He’s in the middle of the sketchbook when he comes across a page full of—bodies. Not, no, not dead bodies, but bodies wrapped around each other, bundled together like—

There are lips, too, well, a pair of the same lips and eyes all over the page and they look like, like—

Bucky’s?

Suddenly, Steve snatches away the book in his hands, and he stands up as if the edge of the fountain burned him.

“Steve?” he whispers, mildly incredulously, as if someone was eavesdropping and monitoring their whole conversation.

“I—uh, Bucky, I—it’s not—” Steve’s got the pencil sitting between his right ear and his head, “—it’s been good seeing you, Buck. I gotta—go.” he lowers his head to the floor.

Bucky tries to stop himself from staring at the handsome man in front of him, the man he’s been enamoured for an entire year, because he’s so fucking adorable but he’s so sexy and sarcastic when he wants to be and he’s— _amazing_ , and he likes Bucky back?

“Steve, I—” he’s turned away when Bucky catches his forearm. “—I’m not—I can’t get drunk, it wears off, and I know what I saw, and I—” Steve turns then, like a bashful schoolboy who got caught eating in class, “I’ve wanted you since that day on the track, because you’re not like—you’re not—you’re not _them_.”

Bucky rubs his eyes, puts his hands on his hips and looks up at Steve. 

His teacher's just standing there, frozen, staring back at him with his mouth slightly ajar.  

Fuck. 

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ — 

He takes a deep breath, and straightens his back from its casual slouch to mask the pain of rejection. Of course, _of course_ he got it wrong, of course he misinterpreted, "I'm sorry, sir. That was way out of line. I—"

Bucky stops when he feels a finger gently run across his cheek, caressing his light shadow of a beard. Steve takes a stray strand of hair at the left side of his face, and brings it behind his ear. He doesn't stop looking at his lips. 

There's no self-control left in Bucky's body. The serum never prepared him for something like this. No elixir could cure him of the infatuation now—not when Steve's right in front of him and he _won't stop looking_. 

"It's not right," Steve whispers, and Bucky catches the light scent of beer on his breath. "but it's not _fair_."

Steve presses his lips against his as if someone could steal away their moment. It turns from a gentle press to a lurid fervour when Bucky wraps his metal hand around the back of Steve's neck and crushes his lips against his. He opens his mouth and tilts his head to welcome Steve's tongue, tangling with his. The slither of a distance between their bodies is closed, and Steve's hands trail down his back, groping his ass. His laugh becomes a quiet gasp, a rush of breath, and he ruts against Steve. It's his goddamn electric touch that sets his nerves on fire, and everything multiplies tenfold, and he's _so fucking hot_.

Bucky bites Steve's bottom lip, and sucks on his tongue. His right hand starts tugging on Steve's hair, and his teacher’s— _dear good fucking lord_ —grabbing the back of Bucky's dress shirt, pulling it loose from his black jeans. Steve attaches his mouth to his neck, trailing his lips along his collar and going back up to the bottom of his jaw, to where his neck meets his shoulder, and he bites and the suction is driving Bucky insane. He could feel the line of Steve's cock, hot and hard against his, and he thrusts up, metal hand wandering and he finally grabs the man's crotch—

He's being pushed away. 

_Steve_ pushed him away, dress shirt crumpled, hair mussed up. He's panting as he stares back at Bucky—if he were in the right mind he'd imagine he probably looked the same—as if he had _stolen_ something from him. 

Bucky doesn't hide his pain. _He doesn't fucking bother._

"You read it?" Bucky spits at him venomously, "Are you fucking disgusted now? Feeling guilty you felt up a broken sex doll?" The trails his tears make burns his cheeks.

“I—I did, but—no. No, that's not—"

"You thought you should just, I don't know, give it a shot? Didn't like the trial version so you changed your fucking mind?"

“Buck—"

"I thought I put it back, left it where it belonged, the past doesn't come back, it shouldn’t—I—I left—I'm not—" 

"Bucky?" 

His vision's swimming now, and he can't stand straight. He can’t fucking breathe. He falls to his knees and he dents the ground with his metal fist, and he's outright sobbing—

"James!"

“Bucky—breathe—" 

"James! James Barnes!"

"Please, Bucky, I'm sorry—I didn't mean—" 

"Jesus fucking Christ—Bucky? Where are you?"

"I'm so sorry, Bucky, please don't tell anyone—"

It's all Bucky catches amidst the heaving, all he can manage was, "I don't ruin things that aren't worth it, Mr. Rogers."

"Bucky? James? James!"

Natasha's suddenly there, Steve— _Steve’s gone_ , and he can't stop crying. When she's finally calmed him down, her lap is half wet, and Bucky thinks the stars in the sky never looked so fucking terrible, as if their light serves to mock him.  

She runs her hands through his hair, loosening it from his bun.  

They spend their night there, Natasha singing him Russian lullabies until her voice is raw and broken. 

 

***

 

He expects Principal Fury to award him another year in S.H.I.E.L.D. because Bucky’s never been an optimistic person (anyway). 

"As much as you’re welcome here, Mr. Barnes," Fury says, looking out from the long window panels of his office and facing Bucky with his ridiculous black cape, "you've passed your probationary period. I, unfortunately, will have to see you at graduation."

He's not sure whether he should laugh or cry. 

Natasha and him get royally fucked by tequila that night. When the morning janitor catches her in Bucky’s room, she stuffs a fifty dollar bill in the back of the poor guy’s pants and slaps his ass. They can’t stop laughing at his face of pure mortification.

 

***

 

"Barnes, James Buchanan." 

Bucky could feel one particular set of eyes on him as he walks onstage. The only pair that sets him apart from the others, the others that are clapping out of obligation for every graduate that graces the podium.

He refuses to meet those eyes.

Not when they're all gathered at the central garden to throw their graduation caps into the sky.

Not when they're leaving the school grounds for the last time, pickup truck by pickup truck, like a funeral procession. 

Not when Bucky's waving goodbye to the place that saved him, ruined him, pieced him back together roughly to break him down again like an enzyme, by the one man he thought he loved.

Not now. 


End file.
